


North

by DottyDot



Series: How It Could Happen [12]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Battle for Winterfell, alternate parentage reveal, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DottyDot/pseuds/DottyDot
Summary: "Sansa, you are the North to me."She started. He drew in a ragged breath, knowing he should never speak of this at all, certainly not now, but he forced himself to look at her, and said again, his voice quavering, “To me, you are the North.”





	North

"Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen and your mother was Lyanna Stark. You are not father's bastard, you’re heir to the Iron Throne."   
  
He could feel Arya's reaction rise up like an angry wave, ready to descend upon her brother for suggesting such a thing, but Sam stammered out his discovery, affirming what was said, and the room returned to silence.   
  
Sansa said nothing.  
  
Davos stood in a corner, removed from the emotional impact, but shocked at what their current situation had become.   
  
Bran proceeded to talk of what he saw in his visions of the Night King and the army of the dead.

Sam articulated his discomfort by shifting his weight, his cheeks flushed, fingers nervously tapping unsteady rhythms on his leg.

Arya interrupted, and instead of raging, she reiterated what, if Jon had been capable of wishing, he would have wished to hear. "You are my brother, now and always."   
  
Bran had an expression on his face that indicated he thought Arya had misunderstood what his revelation meant, but Davos was asking for more details about the Night King.

Sam seemed to be breathing easier now that it appeared there would be no screaming or fainting on the girls' part.   
  
Sansa said nothing.   
  
Sam decided to leave as the talk became consumed in determining the location of the army of the dead.

Arya left to keep an eye on the guests who she found untrustworthy, particularly "the Lannister" as she called Tyrion.  
  
Davos was still speaking to Bran as he pushed him to his room.

It was just Sansa and Jon now, sitting side by side in chairs before the fire in his solar. They sat for some time, Jon was unsure how long, until eventually Sansa moved. Apparently, they had been so stunned they had been motionless as well as dumb. Sansa had only eyes for the ashes, lost in contemplating the complications, the danger that this discovery placed them in.

Jon watched her face, for what he did not know, simply tracking the golden tint cast by the flames shifting from Sansa’s brow to her cheek to her neck, failing to disguise the pallor of her face. Beneath her stoicism, screaming in her silence, Sansa’s thoughts filled the room, and her feelings, they flickered in her eyes. Beneath it all, there was fear, but it was gone as quickly as he recognized it, and she collected herself, returning to her role as lady of Winterfell as if nothing unexpected had occurred.   
  
"It's late, I need to see that the men have supplies. I need to—” a tremor, but she continued, “—see that everyone is settled." She looked to him, finally, and as always, he could not look away. Feelings too quickly buried to be identified were rising in the form of words and desires and Jon felt them come to his tongue and—

"You stay. I'll send Davos back up with food." Sansa did not smile, but in her face was compassion, concern. He had seen many things in her eyes, and yet, there was more, something else he did not recognize. He couldn't respond, his eyes lost in following the wavering lines of light harmlessly crossing her face. And he wondered how he had lived so long without her firm judgments, without her voice, now he hardly knew what he thought without them. He did not now know what to think, how to speak of this. Leave it to Sansa to tell him to do nothing, to make no demands of him, to tell him that she would care for it all.   
  
She stood, and Jon felt a slight tug on his hand. He looked down to see that his hand was tightly holding hers, knuckles white with tension. He must have taken hold of her when Bran or Sam spoke, but he did not recall doing so. He looked up at her again, as if there were something she could say or do to make it right.   
  
"I'm sorry" she told him. There was nothing else to say. Abruptly she leaned down, brushing her lips against his forehead, and then she offered the faintest of weary smiles. She gently pulled her hand free. He had the absurd urge to reach for it, to pull her back to him, to ask her to stay, but he resisted and grabbed the arm of his chair instead, needing something to hold onto as she left the room.

  
\----

  
Jon didn't know if he slept or simply sat, too dazed to comprehend the revelation or know himself. When the dawn came, he hadn’t moved from his chair, was only brought back to the moment when Sansa came to his room with Arya.   
  
"We must not speak of this to Daenerys. One war is enough for now" Sansa declared, Arya nodded her head, so Jon agreed. "Take him down to breakfast, Arya. I need to reexamine our stores and see about rationing. Then we will have to meet with the Queen and the Northern Lords to arrange the defense of the realm."   
  
Jon disliked the fact that Sansa was making Arya his keeper for the time being, but he was in no shape to complain. He still could not take hold of it all, and then he thought perhaps he was thankful. It was a strange relief to Jon when Tormund arrived with the news that the dead were at their door. He could do nothing with the truth, not even understand what it meant. But, he could fight. That he could do.

Except, his plans were met with Sansa’s disapproval. Daenerys and her advisors, Northern Lords, and all the Starks gathered around the table, trying to come up with a plan that might make a difference, might give them a chance.

Sansa’s fury was palpable. “_You_, who have only ever ridden a dragon once are going to go to war on dragonback?”

“It’s our best—”

“What happens if you fall?”

Jon glanced at Daenerys who was looking from Sansa to him, her eyebrow raised as if telling him she _had_ warned him of his disrespectful sister.

Jon looked to Arya, but she stared straight ahead, not speaking. She would be of no help to him. If he asked, no doubt she would defer to Sansa’s opinion.

Daenerys grew agitated that Jon did not remind Sansa of her station. “I am your Queen. Jon is my Warden of the North. You would do well to remember that.”

Jon could feel her seething, but Sansa kept her mouth closed, offering a deferential nod.

\----

The war council ended, and he followed Sansa to her room, closing the heavy door, breathing deeply, preparing himself for her outburst. But, instead of confronting him, she refused to acknowledge him. She walked to her table, running her fingers over her papers. He drew near, and she took a step away.

He shifted his eyes to the table. There were lists, list after list in stacks on her desk, months’ worth of work tracking who sent which supplies and when, where it was stored, a simple, neatly drawn map of the crude constructions hastily built to hold it all. Each was notated with the grain, meat, or vegetable it held, another line with the with the order they were to be used. There were other rough structures, he’d seen them himself, roughly thrown together to offer shelter for the refugees, and on her map, there were numbers. Tallies crossed out, repeatedly doubling, quadrupling. Dates beside them indicating when they had come, sometimes she had managed to note from where. There were other lines, names and ages, children. He would never have thought to track such things, but he knew she was preparing for the inevitability that many would be orphans before the long night was over.

He had known she was capable, more than capable, but the work she had undertaken, to so care for his, for _her_ people, it moved him. Her mind, he knew was beyond him, but to see her compassion and foresight, articulated in these numbers, in those names. “How did you find time to sleep?”

Sansa said nothing but replaced some papers, moved to roll the map and put it away. She was still ignoring him, and her unusual silence was as disturbing to him as any angry words could have been.

“Sansa.”

She walked around the table, placing it between them without looking at him. He followed her, thinking that before he had been the one who always tried to walk away, but now? Now he had nothing to run from. The truth had ruined everything. Everything but this. _This_ was the only thing that it had given him.

“_Sansa_.”

Finally, she turned to him, raising her chin in defiance, a surprising gesture when there were tears in her eyes, telling him that she was not merely angry, she was so again frightened. "Jon, you're the King in the North. We can't risk you.”

“I’m no longer a king.”

“You are to me.”

What could he say to that? She had been at his side when he was named. Taking the North was more her accomplishment than his. His crown had been as much hers as his. She was nearly shaking with her fear, he glanced at her, and he wanted to—no, he couldn’t, but how could he contain himself? He sighed, “Sansa, I’ll be in danger either way. I’m the only one who can ride the second dragon, and it’s the only way—our only hope—”

“Then I’m staying on the battlements. If you don’t have to listen to reason than neither will I.”

“How does that make any sense? No, you and everyone who can’t fight is going to the—”

“Why do I have to be safe if you’re not? Please, just—”

“It’s our best chance!”

“But the North—”

"Sansa, _you_ are the North to me."

She started. He drew in a ragged breath, knowing he should never speak of this at all, certainly not now, but he forced himself to look at her, and said again, his voice quavering, “To me, you are the North.”

Sansa said nothing.

He left her. She could not manage to understand, to find the words for a question. She did not know what he meant, why he would say such a thing, and of course, he would leave without explanation.

He was gone. And Sansa had said nothing.

Bran was no doubt staring into a fire somewhere, and Arya, she was probably tormenting the blacksmith again. _That_ almost made Sansa smile.

She sat on her bed, still struggling to return her breathing to normal, angry and confused. She felt like she was choking, and even though she knew she’d have to put it back on in an hour or two, she needed to take off her armor. She couldn’t breathe, she needed to be free. The armor came off, but it wasn’t enough. She clawed at the laces on her gown, stripping it off, throwing it to the floor. She pulled on a loose robe and crawled into her bed, burrowing down under her furs, a welcome weight to hold her in place.

They had not lost the war, they had armies and dragons, and yet, and _yet_. She was crushed beneath things she could not understand, could not lift.

_You are the North to me._

She kicked at the furs like an angry child. Leave it to Jon to barely speak, and yet still manage to say the most frustrating things.

_To me, you are the North_.

What did he even mean?! He gave the North away, he gave the North to _her_.

Pain filled her chest. Why would he say such things? To aggravate her? Confuse her? Drive her mad? She threw off her furs, found trying to rest only fed her frustration. She wanted to tear her pillow, she wanted to break something. She was exhausted, too emotional to weep, too tired to sleep, the things she needed unobtainable. She wasn’t even sure what they were; she had forgotten how to want long ago.

_You are the north to me_.

It was all she heard, all there was, and she wanted it to disappear along with everything else she had. She was tired of it all. She wanted for once to give in, and not struggle, to not be silent, to not have to endure. She pulled the furs back into place, smoothed her pillow. 

She remembered before he left for Dragonstone, _I'll never stop fighting for it_.

She lay down in the bed. _No matter the odds._ She curled herself around a pillow, everything within her ached with some insatiable agony that wanted to swallow her slowly. Jon was fighting for the North and even if they won, she knew she would lose him.

She wanted to wring his stupid neck._ The North is my home_. She wanted to cry on his shoulder. _I’ll never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. _She wanted to hold him._ I’m leaving both in good hands, yours._ She wanted him to hold her. He had been so sorrowful, so desperate.

_It's part of me._

She sat up.

_It's part of me._

She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but the horns would sound soon, the battle might begin at any moment.

_It's part of me._

She was out of her bed and pulling on her dress, throwing on her furs. The horns could sound before she saw him.

_You are the north to me_.

She left her room and tumbled into Brienne, "Where's Jon?"

Brienne raised an eyebrow, "I do not know M'Lady."

Sansa walked, quickly, but forced herself to walk, not run, to Jon's room. Empty. His furs were gone, his gloves and his gorget as well. She was in the hall again and Davos was stepping back, startled that she was coming from Jon's room. "Have you seen Jon?"

"I had assumed he was in the courtyard."

Down the steps, dodging servants, Brienne complaining, Sansa telling her to find Jaime and make sure he had everything he needed. A suspicious look before Brienne relented, nodded, and left. 

Sansa stumbled out into the darkness. Men and horses, torches and shouts, but no Jon. He wasn’t in the courtyard. _To me, you are the North_.

She moved toward the godswood, caught sight of Ghost keeping vigil, and started down the path to the heart tree. _It’s a part of me._

She ran. She ran as she never had as a girl, too prim then to lift her skirts and stretch out her legs then, but tonight she flew. Through the Godswood, incapable of graceful movements, she sprang over the snow, moving so fast her feet touched the snow for only an instant before meeting air and then falling to the snow again. She stopped, finally, panting by the hot spring, stilled by the sight of him, although her heart pounded in her chest, seeking an escape. As if perhaps, of all the things it had borne, this would be too much.

Jon was kneeling before the heart tree. He raised his head but did not turn. "I would have come to you." 

She walked around the edge of the water now, skirting it as carefully as she had always avoided her feelings. 

"You needn’t have rushed out here. I would not have left with you angry."

He still had not turned, but of course he would know it was her. She waited until he stood, blackness against the paleness of the heart tree. His wild curls spilled ink on the parchment of white bark, each one a loose thread she wanted to smooth and tend. Dark eyes, gentle as always, pained as never before, and still as loving as ever.

"You are the north to me” she said, waiting. He did not move or speak, so she went to him, pulling her furs around herself, feeling the chill her motion had hidden before.

She was before him. "Which part am I, Jon?"

"What?"

"The North is a part of you."

"Aye."

"The North is me."

He looked fearful, but he nodded, exhaled. "_Yes_."

"I am the north"

"Yes."

"Which part of you am I?"

"Sansa—"

"Your mind, conniving and using people the way Littlefinger taught me."

"No."

"The part that longs for our family again, that would give anything to have them all here."

He looked away, and then met her eyes, as if her bravery demanded the same of him and he would rise to meet her challenge. "No."

"The part that still loves songs, even if they're lies."

"No." A small smile at that. He sighed, "The part that wants to live." He extended a hand, she took it, instinctively, and he drew her to himself. "Not in the past. The part that sees a future and wants it. The part that will do anything to protect it."

"I am a part of you."

"_Aye_."

And what could be said to that? Everything. Everything she had never felt before finding him again, everything she had thought was lost to her when he returned, everything that was now standing before her.

"You are a part of me, Jon Snow. The angry, seething, jealous—" She put her hand to his cheek, realizing that she wasn’t wearing gloves, that this was perhaps the first time her fingers had touched his face. “—loving so much I will break if you touch me, part. The loving you so much I will die if you don't."

For a moment, she thought they both stopped breathing, that they were caught up in the air like her words, but the horns could sound at any moment, and they could not die before it was said. "Jon, now it's your turn. You're supposed to—"

He lifted her into her arms and held her. She clung to him, her face in his hair, losing herself in this feeling that she could not even name. All of the unsaid things, everything she could never acknowledge, let alone express, came to her now, and she spoke them all, not in words, because there were no words, not for this. Maybe they existed in the songs, but even songs could not say what she felt. Sobs and kisses fell from her lips to Jon’s face.

His eyes fell closed as she pushed his curls back from his brow and kissed his cheek, just above his eyebrow, his forehead, his other cheek. She had had no one to love. It had been so long, and now, he loved her, and she loved him. She could not stop herself. He set her down on her feet, and she was still covering his face with kisses as he pulled her into his body, his cloak falling around her as his arms encircled her, drawing her to him until they were one. With his arms around her, he kissed her for the first time. 

Finally, _finally_, he spoke, "That took you long enough." 

"I'm a slow learner, but I learn."

He glanced down and saw her toes. "Sansa, you’re barefoot!" 

"I may have been too preoccupied with hunting you down to remember my boots."

"But _your toes_—"

She laughed and pulled his face to hers again, "We have only a few minutes before Brienne finds us. Please stop talking about my toes."


End file.
